


A City Of Dust

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:44:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Team Free Will find a way to prevent Michael and Lucifer's showdown, the cost is high; Sam's dead, Dean's catatonic and Castiel and Bobby are left to pick up the pieces.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>For a <span class="u"><b>warning</b></span> that spoils the end of the story, please click to see the end notes.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	A City Of Dust

**Author's Note:**

> The art prompt I claimed was made by yuan_fen; please find it [HERE](http://yuan-fen.livejournal.com/4694.html) and tell her how gorgeous it is! Plus, I basically went with what she told me she had in mind when she drew it, so I guess credit for the story idea also falls to her. 
> 
> Smilla02 kicked this into shape, sargraf and yohkobennington looked it over as well. Thanks! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Through The Ghost" by Shinedown.

The good news is that the ritual worked. Castiel knows that much the second they're done. It's over; apocalyptic showdown avoided at the last second. 

The bad news is that Dean and Sam are nowhere to be found. Castiel searches without pause for days, but the sigils on the brothers ribs are still in place and doing what they were intended for: hide them from all angels. The very thing that was supposed to keep them safe now keeps him from finding them. It's Castiel's second lesson within four days on the worth of good intentions, and he finds he's starting to despise the concept. 

Four days: that's the amount of time that passes between when the Winchesters set out to save the world and succeed – trick Michael and Lucifer into a prison of flesh, trap them within themselves – and the day that Castiel's daily check-in with Bobby brings the news that they are found. 

The expression Bobby wears lets Castiel know that something's wrong before he even speaks. “They were found in a forest in Nebraska,” he says, voice toneless and raw. “Dean's alive – in bad shape, dehydrated and with a few broken bones in his body, but they're confident he'll make it. Sam, on the other hand... There's nothing they could've done. He had been injured too badly, already dead.” 

“I'm sorry,” is all Castiel could say to that. Too little to encompass what he feels, and he's not sure what he means by it. He's sorry for the loss, and for not being able to prevent the chain of events that led to it. Most of all, he's sorry for Dean, worried what Sam's death will do to him, and to a lesser degree he's sorry for Bobby as well. 

But Bobby seems to understand well enough. He nods curtly, faced away from Castiel, takes his cap off and places it in his lap only to pick it up again instantly and put it back on. “Latest news is Dean's conscious, but hasn't said a word. Doesn't respond at all, just lays there and stares into the distance. Someone had the idea to charge his cell phone and dial the last number saved, and that happened to be mine.” The wheels of his chair creak when he turns it to look Castiel straight in the eye. “You oughta fix him, okay? I don't care how, but bring that boy back to me.” 

 

***

 

The nurses in the hospital look at him with pity and sympathy in their eyes when he asks to see the man who was found out in the wilderness. One of them steps forward, with a look back to her colleagues and a heavy sigh. “You know him? Family?” 

“He doesn't have any family left,” Castiel says, and their expressions turn even sadder. “I'm a friend.” 

She steps forward and strokes a hand down his shoulder, takes it back when Castiel evades the touch. “We're only allowed to let relatives in. But I think we can make an exception this time.” 

He follows her down the hallway, a little nauseous from the sharp smell of sickness, chemicals and cleaning agents that seem to unify hospitals everywhere. It reminds him of his own stint in a clinic not long ago, of his downfall and the loss of his powers. 

And it reminds him of the last time he almost lost Dean. 

After what feels like an eternity, the nurse stops in front of one of the generic light blue doors. “Here we are,” she says; her voice is hushed and low. “Just know that he... Physically, he's not so bad. That'll heal fast. But he's, uh. I don't know how to say that. Don't expect much of a response from him, okay?” 

Castiel wants to ask what she means, but then she pushes the door open to the sight of Dean, pale and thin on that hospital bed, tubes in both nose and mouth, and whatever she was going to say ceases to matter. He pushes past her, into the room. “Dean.” 

Dean's head had been turned to look out of the window that takes up a great part of the wall opposite the door, but he shifts and turns his gaze to Castiel at the sound of his name. His eyes slide over Castiel's frame briefly, avoiding his eyes, before his face scrunches up in a puzzled expression and he looks away again, attention back to whatever he's seeing out there. 

The nurse still stands by the door, and Castiel looks at her questioningly. She takes a tentative step into the room. “That's what I meant. He's not responsive.”

“Not responsive?” 

“We assume that whatever happened to him out there was so traumatic that he, just, retreated into himself. May be temporary, could be permanent; we don't know yet.” She puts a hand on her chest, where a necklace with a cross rests above her scrubs, and absently plays with it. “We can fix what's wrong with his body, the tubes help him breathe, and we're giving him something for the pain, but that... We'll have to see.” 

Castiel walks over to the bed, puts a hand on Dean's arm. He expects him to draw away, almost wants him to, but nothing happens. No reaction, not even a flinch. Leaving it there, Castiel leans in so that he's close enough to whisper. “Dean. Do you know where you are? And why? Do you remember what happened to Sam?” 

“Sam,” Dean repeats, and it sounds all wrong due to the tube in his mouth, but that's all he does. He doesn't even turn back around. 

 

***

 

For a week, Castiel's whole world narrows down to Dean's room in the hospital. He only leaves it once, to bring Sam's body back to Bobby and tell him about the state Dean's in, gets yelled at for his failure to save one and inability to heal the other. He endures it in silence, lets Bobby nearly scream himself hoarse, but he hurries back to the hospital before Bobby prepares the pyre. 

There's nothing he can do for Sam anymore, but he can be there for Dean. 

Every now and then, he feigns sleep so that the staff doesn't wonder, and sometimes he remembers to eat. The rest of his time is spent in a chair by Dean's bed, sitting and waiting and hoping for a reaction, an acknowledgment of his presence that never comes. Dean goes from bad to worse in front of Castiel's eyes. After a few days, he stops to be bothered at all when someone leaves or enters the room. He eats and goes to the bathroom when he's told and pliantly rolls this way and that when the doctor wants to examine his injuries or the nurses come to wash him, but that's it. The rest of the time, he keeps staring out that damn window. 

Castiel comes to assume there's nothing out there to look at, figures it might just be an excuse to not look at anything or anyone else. 

He talks to Dean, though, even though he's not sure if Dean listens. All day long he goes on and on about things he's seen when he was out there looking for God, about how worried Bobby is, about the gossip that the nurses share with him although he has no interest in it, about battles he's fought. He very pointedly doesn't talk about Sam. 

Not once does Dean answer or show any other reaction. 

 

***

 

Ten days after Dean was found, he gets released. He still wears a cast on his arm, a bandage around his ribcage and he's got several faded bruises all over his body, but the hospital has done its part. 

They ask Castiel if there's somewhere he can take Dean, if he'll be cared for. “Yes,” he answers, “of course he does.” There's Bobby, after all, and there will always be Castiel himself. 

He signs documents with a signature so cryptic no one notices the lack of a last name, gets handed prescriptions and pamphlets and is given instructions by the nurses, and eventually, they hand over Dean. 

On his own, Castiel can still fly. It takes a lot out of him, leaves him breathless and exhausted, but it works. But with someone else in tow? Out of question. He doesn't know if Dean still remembers his dislike for planes, but doesn't want to risk it, so they have to travel by other means. Bobby wires him some money on request, the nurses help him to book bus tickets and print out traveling plans, and then Castiel is left alone with a Dean who's mute and unresponsive and does nothing but stare at him confusedly or straight-out ignore him if Castiel talks to him. 

Even so, technically, it's not difficult to guide Dean out of the hospital, into a taxi and towards a bus to South Dakota. He follows Castiel around like a dog brought to heel, walks any way Castiel points him, right up until he steers him towards another. 

And yet it's the hardest thing Castiel's ever done. 

 

***

 

Bobby stares at Castiel, then at Dean, and at Castiel again. There's hatred in his gaze, accusation and despair, and Castiel can't figure out whether it's directed at him or the world in general; probably both. He huffs, mumbles something Castiel can't discern and puts a hand to the small of Dean's back, guides him towards the ratty old couch in the living room as best as he can with the other hand at the wheel of his chair. Once or twice, he has to stop to adjust the direction because the wheels caught, and every time Dean stops dead and waits. He gapes at Bobby – eyes as big as they are unseeing, body tense and coiled – and doesn't relax until Bobby makes him sit down and lets go of him. Instantly, he turns away from both of them, stares out of the window behind the couch. 

When Bobby addresses Castiel again, his eyes glaze with unshed tears. “I want you gone,” he says, low and with a strain that sounds as if he'd rather shout but doesn't quite dare to. 

Castiel gropes for the right words, comes up empty. Says, “I can help,” and knows it's the wrong choice. 

“He doesn't need your help, and neither do I. You've done enough, all of you, don't ya think?” 

There's no argument that'd change the old man's mind, nothing that would turn this around, and so Castiel folds. Without another word, he leaves, and makes it as far as the yard before he realizes that he doesn't have anywhere to go. Heaven won't take him back, and it's not where Castiel would like to be, anyway. God doesn't want anything to do with him, and he's not fallen far enough to try his luck in Hell. For a while now, home has been Dean, and Sam, and this fight – all of which is lost to him. 

In the end, he stays close. He may be more human than angel now, but he still doesn't need food or sleep or a roof above his head, and if he so chooses, he doesn't even have to be visible. Every now and then, he steals glances, lingers in front of the window that Dean stares out of day in and day out. He's pretty sure that Dean sees him, sometimes, or feels him near, but he doesn't acknowledge his presence with anything other than a brief glance vaguely in Castiel's direction. 

 

***

 

About a month after he told him to leave, Bobby calls out for Castiel and doesn't even show any surprise when Castiel materializes in front of him a few seconds later. He looks worn out, tired, and somewhat ashamed. Defeated. “I can't do it,” he says by the way of a greeting, and nods towards his useless legs. “Not like this. It's too much. He... I can't take care of him alone.” 

Castiel doesn't do anything else but nod. He understands that simply admitting as much costs Bobby enough, more so after how they parted the last time. There's no need to draw this moment out, to rub it in. 

Bobby looks relieved, and Castiel has a hard time not being offended by that. As if there were any doubt that the answer to his question would be yes; as if he'd turn his back because of petty human quarrels. But he doesn't say any of that, either; decides that none of it matters. It's not important why he's here, or what led Bobby to allow him to be. 

The only thing that really matters sits at his usual spot on the couch and stares out that window, as if he waits for something – or someone – to appear in the distance. The thought makes Castiel's heart twinge. He walks over to Dean slowly and with attention to staying in his line of sight, although he knows it won't make a difference. Dean doesn't show any reaction either way, not even when Castiel sits down on the other end of the couch, careful not to touch him. 

“You do feel it, don't you? You miss him.” 

“Miss him,” Dean repeats tonelessly, but it doesn't seem as if that's supposed to be an answer; he merely parrots it. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby frowns, then he clears his throat, half-turned away. “Got a room for Dean in the back, and there's plenty of room upstairs. You can stay there if you want. I'll pay for food and clothes and the like for both of you, and anythin' he needs in regard to meds and such. Any extravagances you wanna, see how you get them yourself.” 

Castiel gets up. “There won't be any. Show me his room?” 

They walk in silence, Bobby's hostility palpable. He leads Castiel to a repurposed store room, now with a bed and a small cupboard in it, but stops him by grabbing his biceps just before they enter it. “One more thing. I know about the... antics the two of you have been up to, uh, before. Not that I'm old-fashioned or anything– whatever made him happy – but if you try anything now, the state he's in and under my roof, I'm gonna break your neck. Angel or no, I swear I'll do it.” 

Castiel doesn't know which shocks him more: gaining the knowledge that Bobby _knew_ , or being confronted with the idea that he might take advantage of Dean when he's incapable of consent. On second thought, though, bright, red-hot anger flares up in him in regard to the insinuation. “Of course not. I'd never.” He pushes past Bobby and closes the door to his face. 

 

***

 

Dean requires a lot of assistance. He's still pliant and lets himself be led and guided this way and that, mimics movements when he senses he's expected to, but he doesn't do anything on his own volition. Sometimes, he gets petulant, like a child, does the exact opposite of what one wants him to do, becomes evasive and almost aggressive. At times like that, a lot of manhandling – strength and a radius of movement Bobby doesn't possess anymore – is required to get him to do simple tasks, and Castiel figures that's what made Bobby ask for help in the end. 

And there's not much he can be left to his own devices for either. Bathroom visits, shower, dressing and undressing, none of that works unaided. Bobby tells Castiel that the first time he made Dean take a shower, he left him alone after he'd turned on the water to give him some privacy. Dean had seemed comprehending enough, and Bobby had hoped that he'd remember the concept of the task. 

When he'd returned fifteen minutes later, Dean had still stood in the same position Bobby'd left him in, shivering because the water had run cold in the meantime. 

Now that Castiel's here, Bobby stays mostly out of the more intimate things. For all his animosity towards the idea that Castiel might want to revive his and Dean's physical relationship under the current circumstances, he seems all too happy to leave anything that involves nudity, or touch that goes beyond giving directions or making Dean sit down or stand up, to someone else. 

He thaws with time, too, when he doesn't seem to find any evidence for impure intentions in Castiel's behavior. They manage to work out a routine, find a balance that allows both of them time for themselves alongside with their duties in between taking care of Dean's every need. But while Bobby seems to savor that – exhaustion and strain clear in his face and posture when he lets Castiel take over – Castiel dreads it. 

Alone with his thoughts, the horror of their situation – _Dean's_ situation– catches up with him. It's difficult to reconcile the person he rebelled and fell for, put all that was left of his faith into, with this empty shell, and he can't stop wondering how much of him is still in there. How much Dean still feels and understands, if he's ashamed or embarrassed. If he's aware of what he lost, what happened to Sam, and if he has any hope of coming to terms with it. 

 

***

 

At some point, Dean gets sick. A common cold, most likely, nothing serious, but nevertheless Castiel and Bobby do their best to outdo one another with allocations of blame. They spend the full first morning of it hailing accusations at each other in an attempt to track down the reason; did someone leave a window open, has Dean been left wet for too long after his shower, or was it too cold in his room? 

Then Dean spikes a fever and starts to cough so much it takes his breath away, and the question of who or what caused this ceases to be of importance. 

Evening comes, and with it the question who's going to stay with Dean for the night. Castiel doesn't want to be the one who brings it up first, and so he's grateful when Bobby appears in the doorway, ruffling his beard uncomfortably, after Dean's changed into T-shirt and track pants for the night. 

“Guess we can't leave him uncared for tonight.” 

“No,” answers Castiel. He doesn't add anything else on purpose. 

Bobby smiles awkwardly, as if aware that he somehow ended up in a corner. “Damnit, whatever. You do it. When it comes to wakin' up next to someone, guess he's more familiar with it being you.”

He lingers in the doorway for a moment more, then shrugs and leaves, closes the door behind himself. Castiel helps Dean to lie down, switches off the light and settles on the other side of the bed. It's both familiar and horribly wrong, the way Dean stares at him until he falls asleep, and Castiel stays stock still even after Dean's eyes are closed and his breathing has evened out. 

So many memories, so many other nights; so much they both lost since then. 

The feel of Dean's warm body next to him is still the same, the heat radiating off him across the small space between them. He smells a little different, cleaner and less like himself, no gun oil or gasoline from time spent underneath the car, no old sweat or dirt; it's similar enough to still be essentially _Dean_ , his unique scent, but the missing notes so clear and obvious as if someone snapped a picture and marked them with a red pen. Castiel doesn't know what hurts more: being so close without being able to touch, to hold, to kiss, or remembering how they did exactly that and more. 

He's still deep in thought when he notices a subtle change to Dean's breathing. It speeds up, becomes erratic, and yes, that's something Castiel knows from _before_ , too. Dean's dreaming, and it's nothing pleasant. He barely hesitates before he concentrates and brings two fingers to Dean's temple, focuses what's left of his grace on Dean to get a glimpse of his nightmare. Some effort is needed, but he manages – and recoils almost instantly. 

Castiel doesn't know what he expected. Hell, maybe, or dreams about Sam's death. What he sees, instead, is Michael. Not a dream, not a shadow, not a figure made up of fear and bad memories. The real thing, the archangel Dean trapped in his own body, so prominent and all-consuming that Castiel can barely make out what's left of Dean in there. 

And Dean is terrified. Defiant, still fighting tooth and nail for the upper hand and any resemblance of control, but it's an uneven battle. It ought to be, archangel against human; Dean's weakened, and he's changed – reduced to nothing _but_ fear and instinct. 

How foolish they were to think that this might somehow work out, that Dean – and Sam – might be able to take a being so powerful into themselves and come out the other end okay. No wonder that Dean's conscious self has faded to almost nothing, considering the force his soul has to withstand inside the confines of his body. 

Castiel chides himself for not noticing any of that sooner, for not even entertaining the idea. He'd thought that loosing Sam on the heels of the fight, the ritual, and the experience of being ridden by an archangel – however briefly – would've been reason enough to explain the state Dean's in. He was sure Michael would be dormant, simmering in the background until Dean died, not wage a constant battle at Dean to get out and gain control; they all assumed that when they found the ritual. 

For the rest of the night, Castiel tries to aid Dean as best as he can, help him keep Michael at bay, but he finds that with the frayed shreds of his grace he can't do much good. 

 

***

 

First thing the next day, after he's taken care of Dean's morning routine, Castiel asks Bobby for a conference. Bobby shrugs, wary already because of the unusual request, and he leads them to the kitchen. Coffee mug in hand, he sits down and gestures for Castiel to do the same. 

“So, what is it? Dean all right?” 

Castiel pauses, trying to approach this in a way that softens the impact. He realizes that there isn't one. “No, he's not.” As Bobby's eyes go wide in shock, he amends, “I mean, the cold is getting better, I think. His fever broke early this morning.” 

“Less suspense, more input. What _did_ you mean?” 

“We made a horrible mistake. The ritual. Either we misinterpreted it, or something went wrong, but Michael isn't inactive. He was supposed to be, until he dies alongside the mortal body he's trapped in, like it happened to Sam. The human soul moves on to heaven; the archangel ceases to exist.” Castiel and Dean talked about that, during their last night, and Dean had snorted at the irony that angels, of all things, don't go to heaven when they die; they simply fade out, the burnt shape of their wings the only thing that's left. He didn't think about it before, but now the knowledge that he might not ever see Dean again – all of him, whole and healthy and sane – settles in Castiel's stomach like a lead weight, and he pauses. 

“Yeah,” Bobby prompts after a moment, impatient. “I was there, I probably read more about that damn ritual than you did. Get to the point!” 

“He's in there, in Dean's soul, pushing for dominance.” 

Bobby stares at him, disbelief and renewed shock painted all over his features. “You're saying that, uh, the way Dean's been, that's Michael trying to overthrow him and take over? Break the spell?” 

“Yes. And there's more. I don't think that... After months of this, what's left of Dean has been torn to ribbons. I'm not sure he'll get better, even if we get Michael to leave him alone.” 

“Well, fuck,” Bobby says, with feeling. And then, resolute and firm: “Doesn't matter, we gotta at least try to free him. Everything else, we'll figure out after.”

Castiel couldn't agree more. 

 

***

 

The next few days, neither of them gets much sleep between Dean riding out the last throes of his cold and the research into the ritual or another way to put Michael down for good. It's a frantic search; Castiel puts all the time he doesn't spend with Dean into scouring libraries near and far while Bobby goes through his own books. 

But the more they dig, the harder they look, the more obvious it becomes that there might not be a way to help Dean. They don't have much to go on as it is, finding the ritual in the first place was a search for a needle in a haystack, and it seems impossible to find much more information. 

One late night, Castiel gives up on pride and fear of rejection and prays. To no one in particular at first, and then he calls upon a few old friends. But as much as he pleads, there's no answer in the chaotic mess of hushed voices that's Heaven nowadays. Without guidance, his brothers and sisters are like children, huddling in a corner and talking over each other, and he won't get through even if there's still someone in heaven that's fond enough of him to help. 

As they get more desperate, they put Dean through another spell or two, all of them designed for beings far less powerful than an archangel, and none show any effect. Each time, Castiel lays a hand to Dean's temple afterwards, hoping against hope that what he sees in there is the man he knows and loves, and each time he's let down and finds Dean still fighting, losing more of himself every day. 

On the evening of their latest attempt, Dean's visibly strung out, barely manages to stay awake through dinner. He picks at his food, eventually ignoring it altogether. He leans back in his chair, eyes almost slipping shut, only to tear them open again when he loses his balance and all but falls off his chair. That happens twice before he wanders off to the couch to curl up there. 

Castiel follows him, takes a seat as well and strokes a hand down Dean's back to get him awake enough so he'll understand that it's okay – they'll go to his room and he'll be allowed to go to bed already before his usual time. Dean looks up at him in reaction, considering, but doesn't get up. Slowly, as if afraid of rejection or a reprimand, he inches closer. His gaze is pinned to Castiel's face as he raises a hand, briefly touches Castiel's temple, then stares at him expectantly. 

Torn between confusion and some sort of warm, happy feeling that spreads in his belly at the fact that Dean _is interacting with him_ – consciously, on purpose – Castiel asks him, “What do you want?” 

There's no answer, of course, but Dean does it again. His fingers linger longer this time, give a slight pressure, and Castiel recognizes the gesture Dean tries to mirror back at him. The warmth he feels turns to cold horror, and he draws Dean in, puts two fingers to his forehead and concentrates. 

Dean melts into him on a drawn-out sigh, and the rest of the night Castiel doesn't move at all. He sits there, Dean in his arms, fully focused on keeping him under far enough that Michael can't get through to him. 

 

***

 

After that, Castiel spends every night in Dean's bed. His participation in the search for a solution, a way out, comes to a stand; the only time he dares to leave the house is when Bobby abandons his books in order to look after Dean, and even then he does it with reluctance. 

It doesn't help that the longer they search, the fewer answers come up. 

One morning after Dean's awake and taken care of, Bobby taps Castiel's shoulder when he comes out of the living room where he left Dean sitting in his usual spot. “You know what? I happened across an old bottle of homemade swill last night; how about we go and kill it together, have a talk?” 

Castiel hesitates. “I'm not doing anything, at night. With him. I just stay close to help him sleep.” 

“I know. And maybe I should apologize for ever implying you would. Been jealous, I guess, and angry. Frustrated with him, with me, with this damn chair.” He takes two glasses out of the bottom cupboard and produces a bottle with a handwritten label out of the fridge. It's not full; Castiel guesses Bobby already allowed himself a generous helping when he first found it. “We all decided to do this. The boys wanted it. It's not your fault any more than mine, or Dean's own.” 

Castiel doesn't reply, waits Bobby out as he pushes one of the glasses over, takes a long pull from his own and refills it. 

“When you, uh, help him sleep, do you communicate with him? Does he know what's goin' on? Does he understand?” 

“We don't have conversations with words, if that's what you wish to know. I can do little against Michael, he's too strong, but I gathered that Dean finds my presence calming. It seems to be comforting, to not be alone in there when he sleeps and can't escape Micheal.” 

Bobby's eyebrows knit together in thought. “You'd have told me if there was any way for you to, dunno, pull him to the surface?” 

“Of course,” Castiel says, eyes cast downwards. He would've been able to, a year or two ago. Back then, with his powers in full force, he could have shielded Dean from Michael's onslaughts permanently. More than that, he would've felt Michael way sooner, maybe had been able to prevent the worst of the damage. But with his grace waned, no such thing is possible. 

Bobby doesn't answer. He downs another glass, then a second. 

And as he watches the old hunter do that, Castiel understands what this conversation is about. “You don't think there's any other way. Nothing else we can do to help him.” 

“No,” Bobby answers, although his eyes, the resigned expression on his face, tell another story. He pushes back his chair with so much force he almost falls over. “As long as I'm drawin' breath, I won't give up.” 

He rolls off to bury himself in his books once more, and Castiel is left alone in the kitchen with his untouched glass of liquor and the slow realization that one of them might have to make a decision. 

 

***

 

There are exactly two ways to free Dean of Michael: set him free, or kill them both. They're locked to each other through the ritual, and if the human body he's trapped in dies, so will Michael. 

Regardless of how much he suffers, Castiel thinks he knows Dean well enough to know that after everything that happened, how much they fought, after they lost Sam to this, Dean would never agree to setting the archangel free for his own sake. Lucifer might already be gone, died with Sam, but there's no telling what heaven would come up with in retaliation. Right now, with their leader trapped and in the knowledge that Dean holds all the cards, that Michael will be lost as well if he dies, they're not likely to attack. But as soon as Michael's free, all bets will be off. 

And Michael isn't known to be reasonable; he'll be sure to take his revenge, what or whomever he'd have to destroy in the process. The fight's not over. It's on hold. 

Castiel thinks about all of this while he lies in bed, studies every tiny shift in Dean's facial expressions, ready to chime in to help as soon as he sees the first signs of a bad night. They come soon enough, and as Dean twists and turns and Castiel waits for this assistance to take effect, for Dean to calm, he presses his forehead to Dean's shoulder. “What should I do? Please, please tell me what it is that you want. Find a way to let me know.” 

It might be coincidence, probably is, but in that moment Dean cries out. It's a horrible sound, his voice still hoarse from sleep, rasped and pained. He doesn't open his eyes, shows no sign that he's woken up, and Castiel makes his decision. 

He's been taught how to think in strategies, how to disregard his own interests in favor of the greater good, and yet none of those facts seems important to him. They're all good reasons, sound arguments for ending Dean's pain instead of prolonging it, but in the end it boils down to this: 

Dean's suffering, and Castiel has a way to end it. 

 

***

 

He doesn't talk to Bobby. That's sure to earn him his hatred, afterwards, but Castiel doesn't care. 

When this is done, he won't ever care for anything else again, that much is for certain. 

Castiel granted himself another week to think this through, to hope for a miracle, to give himself and Bobby a last chance to dig up a piece of information they've been missing all this time. It only served to strengthen his resolve. 

He waits until way past midnight. Last he saw Bobby, the old man was busy drinking himself halfway into a coma, and that makes tonight the perfect opportunity to do this. When he's sure that Bobby's went to bed, drank himself into a stupor and he won't come out of until daylight, Castiel rouses Dean. 

The way Dean doesn't resist, goes along with everything he's made to do like every other day, breaks Castiel's heart all over again. But when he looks into Dean's face in the weak light of the bedside lamps, his expression is calm, his eyes knowing. 

Of course Dean would know. With all of Castiel's extended trips into his head, he must have picked up on this. And he doesn't look afraid; the opposite, he looks calmer than Castiel has seen him since before the ritual. 

It's the last puzzle piece, eradicates whatever doubts Castiel had left. He takes Dean's hand after he's dressed him, carefully and with shaking fingers, and leads him out of the house, across the yard. They walk for quite a while, until the house is out of sight. There's a small forest on the other side of town where Castiel often hid after Bobby told him to get lost all those months ago, and that's where he takes Dean. In the middle of it, there's a clearing, and Castiel sits Dean down on a tree stump, then crouches in front of him. 

“I hope this will give you peace. Maybe, if heaven as I knew it still exists, you will see Sam again. But I don't think I will be able to follow you. I'm still angel enough to be denied Heaven. But that's okay. If I can't follow you, Michael won't be able to either.” There is so much more he wants to say, _I love you_ and _I miss you more than I can bear_ and _I don't regret what I did for you_ , but all of these are things that he hopes Dean knows anyway. 

He tucks Dean close, cradles his head in both hands, and enters Dean's subconsciousness. His focus is on Dean and nothing else, desperate to get a last glimpse at what's left of the soul he saved what seems like forever ago. 

And then he concentrates on erasing even that.

**Author's Note:**

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>  _(This is me, miss-using the end notes as a spoiler tag. So, if you've just read the whole thing, ignore this. Nothing you don't already know. XD)_   
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> Castiel kills Dean in the end. This happens without Dean's expressed consent, simply because Dean isn't _able_ to express himself well enough to give it. I tried to make it clear regardless that Dean's okay with being put to rest, but you be the judge of how well I managed that.


End file.
